


The Thing About Mercy

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bottom Megatron, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18251810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: Rung once asked him at what point he decided the universe required dominating. The truth is, there's only ever really been the powerful and the powerless, the guilty and the innocent. Of course this exchange isn't about that, except for how it is.





	The Thing About Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> this is the definition of "author appeal", and somehow me saying to my friend "there should be more bottom megs content" in passing ended up with a several page treatise on how Megatron Should Be a Sub, Actually. Here Megatron mentions an encounter earlier in his life that was definitely initiated without his consent, so if that bothers you, be wary.

 

It takes the cunning of a tactician, at times, to make the pieces fit together. Tonight, Megatron grabs hold of his courage, steadies himself, and lowers himself onto the floor. He is twice the size of Rung, and this is all too precarious to entrust to the floating island of a berth. Besides--there’s something about surrendering himself to the solid, unpresuming floor that makes him feel more that he belongs here. In this new life, everything is penance, even pleasure. Thus far, Rung has been kind enough not to comment on this edge to their encounters. While he hopes that Rung hasn’t noticed, he wouldn’t care to bet on it.

His quarters on the Lost Light are utilitarian, but private and in a sort of way safe.

When he’s laid himself down fully, all he can see is the ceiling. As far as his visual sense is concerned, he is alone in the room. Whatever comes next, he can’t see it coming.

He spreads his legs, making himself open, waiting.

It’s silent for a moment, in his quarters. “Well,” Rung says at last. “You had better tell me what you’re thinking, then.”

Megatron keeps his gaze firmly locked on the ceiling. “I should think the invitation was obvious,” he says. Just in case he’s wrong, he opens himself up a little wider. That’s actually as wide as he can make himself--this frame doesn’t have the range of motion that his previous flight frame had, which is a pity, because he never used that body for anything like this.

“I’ll tell you how this looks to me, shall I?” Rung says, and there’s the soft sound of his steps weaving closer. “My captain, with whom I have shared several intimate encounters, and who is famously known for being self-possessed, shut-off, and not particularly warm--has with very little preamble presented himself in what I think any expert in body language would confidently identify as a position of surrender.”

Irritation and arousal war within the hot chamber of Megatron’s spark. Of course Rung has to _say it._

“You are offering me implicit access to your body,” Rung says, more hesitantly now. The faint electrical presence of him comes to a halt at Megatron’s pede. “You want me to touch you?”

Megatron fights down a shiver of pleasure that crawls through him just at those words.

“I trust you,” he says. “Out of two hundred mech on this ship, you are one of the two that I trust not to let vengeance or simple resentment color your treatment of me.”

Without even seeing him, Megatron knows the moment that Rung softens. The presence of him advances, until Megatron can just make out green glass and bright metal at the edge of his vision.

“How would you like me to touch you?” Rung asks. 

Instead of answering, Megatron steadies himself with two flat palms against the floor, and then bares his valve. The array cover transforms back clumsily--he hasn’t executed this command since they put him back together in this body. The mesh throbs, half from the sudden change of sensation, half from the knowledge that Rung is watching. His wetness, his readiness--the blazing light of his anterior node--all of it presented for Rung’s judgement. 

Rung’s EM field flares.

 “I can’t read your mind,” Rung says. “You have to tell me how far I should go, or I won’t know where to stop.”

Megatron grits his teeth. His valve clenches with want. “You’re determined to humiliate me, aren’t you? It’s not enough that I’m offering you something any countless number of others would kill for. You want to reduce me still further.”

In a sardonic tone that only Rung can pull off while someone is literally spreading their legs for him, Rung says, “Negotiating boundaries is not what I normally consider a facet of humiliation kink.”

There’s a palm shaped pressure against Megatron’s hip. Rung crawls over him, ignoring the valve that pulses with longing as he bypasses it entirely, climbing up to kneel easily over the closed housing of Megatron’s spike. Megatron looks at him. Under the round blanks of glass, the look of interest is almost clinical. Rung pets his waist, soothing and light.

 “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

Megatron is thinking of echoing darkness and the smell of stone, the feeling of grit grinding in every joint, the simplicity, the misery.

Who was the mech who lived in that darkness? He seems like a fairy tale now, an idea of himself that Megatron can only hope is true.

 “You said before I’m not known for my warmth,” he says. “I find affection—difficult. Fragile. Before the war most of the intimacy I had known was of the impersonal, unromantic variety. After the war…”

Rung nods in general understanding. During the war, Megatron had expressed his favor and his discontent alike with violence. There had been little room for undisguised affection.

 “I want you to take me,” Megatron says. “I haven’t been taken since the mines. I want to… feel what that was like, again. When I was young and and powerless and--” 

He cuts himself off. He doesn’t know how to say it. To him, innocence and victimhood are the same thing. Power and guilt are inextricably caught up in each other.  

Rung glances back, over his shoulder. “Your valve…?” he says, sounding mostly as if he’s working out a problem with himself. He chews thoughtfully at his lip. “It would be my pleasure to eat you out, but if you want something rougher, I could use my hands?”

“I want you to spike me,” Megatron says.

“Oh,” Rung breathes. “You’re sure? It can be intense. You may not remember—”

“I don’t ask for things without meaning them,” Megatron says, losing patience. “I trust you. I’m in your hands.”

A little thrill runs visibly through Rung, whose modesty panel starts to radiate conspicuous warmth where he’s trapped it against Megatron’s waist. For a moment he simply remains there, straddling Megatron, venting air into his systems.

“You know  I’ll stop if you ask me to,” he says, when he finally relaxes.

“I know.”

Rung gets down off him and settles between his thighs, fitting easily in the space there. His presence is both reassuring and unnerving as he curls his body over the vulnerable interface components, shielding them from the too-wide, too-empty rest of the room. He strokes the seams over Megatron’s hip joints, inspecting what lies between. Megatron has never been a particularly self conscious mech, but this is--new. The worst thing that could happen now would be for Rung to decide he wasn’t interested after all, after he made Megatron say all of… that.

Rung traces a shivery path down the curve of valve lips, letting his fingers come to a stop at the lowest point of the opening, the place where lubricant bubbles and drips from. It’s slick, strange, how easily those fingers open him up. Rung parts him and a spends a moment simply rubbing soothing lines from the dribbling bottom of his valve to the crackling anterior node at its top.

Megatron’s systems are glitching and flickering as his body tries to accommodate this new brand of sensation. He tenses, insides pulsing, and tries not to react.

“Get on with it,” he manages.

“Be patient,” Rung says, rubbing the node with hard, deliberate pressure. “I realize that your equipment can handle much bigger equipment than mine, in _theory,_ but I’m not interested in overwhelming you. It’s your first time in a new body.” His fingertips circle for a moment, not quite making contact with the node that immediately aches for more of his touch. “I’m going to acclimate you to the sensation from this region before I go any further. If you’re not ready for this kind of sensory input, your processor can shunt it straight into pain.”

 “Then _hurt_ me, if you must,” Megatron says, impatient in a way that is almost unbearable. “I can take it. I’ve certainly had worse.”

He will take this in silence, as a strong mech does. Pleasure or pain regardless, he will bear it respectably. 

“I don’t understand,” Rung mutters,“how you can be so unfailingly gentle with me, and then ask me to treat you so miserably. This isn’t _field surgery_ , Megatron. We have time.”

Two of his fingers slip into the clench of Megatron’s valve, fitting easily, curling slick and effortless inside of him in a way that makes his engine roar. 

“We have _time_ ,” Rung soothes, stroking the soft, slick inside of Megatron. “Relax for me. Cycle out that air your vents are holding. You said you trust me, didn’t you?”

He did--he _did_ \--and he does--

 “Stop trying to take control.” Rung presses a kiss to the closed iris of his spike housing. “Give up-” he sucks the edge, “give in-” he noses downward, “submit yourself to my care.”

Megatron feels like he’s fighting it claw and denta as he forces himself to let go, one piston at a time. Rung hums in sweet approval, closes his mouth around the glittering bud, and _sucks._

For a moment, the only thing Megatron knows is pure, clean lust.

Rung withdraws his hand from inside Megatron. The mesh ripples around him, trying to draw him back inside and snug him tight against the contact points hungry for stimulation. There’s a click, and then the head of a spike presses against Megatron, hot and somehow as delicate as its owner. He can’t see it now, from here, but he’s seen it before--held it in his mouth before, welcomed it into his throat--it’s a lovely little thing, not even as long as Megatron’s hand.

Although most of Megatron’s knowledge from this end of things is theoretical, well… It’s much easier to cycle down to fit a smaller spike than it is to cycle open to fit something too big for you, he knows that much. He refuses to be nervous. He is _Megatron_ still, for all his sins, and he will not be intimidated by something as mundane as interface.

The head of Rung’s spike is a point of distracting heat against eager mesh as Rung ruts gently against him, slipping over the cleft of his valve entrance. Each time the contact point under the head taps against Megatron’s node, pleasure jolts through his array. It twists in him.

“When you were last--” Rung seems to consider the word, before going on, “-- _taken,_  how did they take you?”

Megatron clutches at the floor, leaving scratches in the metal there. “On my back,” he gasps, “like this--it was another miner, he--had me in the dark, at the work site, I never learned his designation--”

“Is this a good memory, or a bad one?” Rung asks, without any apparent judgement. 

Megatron moans, as the spike head catches on his node and scrapes over it, throwing up stars inside his chassis. “It’s--” he chokes off. “Neither--both--”

“Ah,” Rung says, as if he understands perfectly, as if that explained everything perfectly.

Megatron finds it within himself to be a little exasperated that Rung apparently understands his life better than he does, immediately and without effort. He’s only been carrying it around for the last several million years, what should he know about it? Something in his face must give him away, because Rung lets out the breathiest little laugh.

The memory is faded now, faraway and decaying at the edges, but he remembers it hurt. It hurt, and then it didn’t hurt, and he was so young then, he had hardly experienced anything that didn’t hurt him. No one had touched him since he woke in the factory, disoriented and sore from the process of cold-onlining all his sensors at once. No one had ever touched him for longer than it took to push him into an elevator lift, or shove a piece of equipment into his hands.

 “Alright,” Rung says, with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Bear with me now…”

Rung drives in, forcing the tight walls of the valve to part for him. His spike buries itself in Megatron with a wild ripple and clench.  Something too sweet to be pain tears through Megatron’s frame, intense and terrible and sublime and he remembers this, all at once, the way it felt--

Rung stills inside of him, his hands smoothing over flat panes of armor. “Shh,” he says, “I have you.”

Megatron belatedly realizes that soft, strained sounds are leaving his vocoder without this permission. He swallows reflexively and reboots the treacherous piece of hardware.

Rung gives a slow, shallow thrust, and Megatron’s valve grips him like it can’t bear to let him go. 

The softness Rung pushes into is so delicate, so giving, that it hardly seems a part of Megatron’s hard, brutal body. He feels ungraceful and overpowered as he pushes back, trying to arch into Rung’s hands and hips. His bulk is useless under Rung’s unforgiving tenderness.

He _feels_ it, moving inside of him. He shivers. 

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Rung tells him, stroking his boxy edges. There’s a slightly feline edge, an almost purr, in his voice. “How is it?”

“Irrelevant,” Megatron says, his voice rough and edged with static. “I am at your disposal. You may take your pleasure with me.”

Rung’s spike gives a twitch that Megatron can feel in every inch of his valve.

“Is that what you’d like?” Rung asks. “Would you like me to ride you hard and put you away wet?”

Megatron’s engine revs, his whole chest vibrates with it. He makes a sound he thinks may qualify as an affirmative.

“You have to say yes,” Rung tells him. “Say, _yes, Rung.”_

“Yes, Rung,” Megatron manages. 

In reward, Rung gives him a long, slow thrust, forcing himself in to the hilt. The spike is a comfortable girth for internals not yet broken in, but it isn’t long enough to press Megatron’s ceiling nodes. His array aches for more--instinct drives him to grind up against Rung.

“That’s it,” Rung says, a little breathless. “That’s it. Shh. You can have more.” 

Rung pulls out, contact points flash-sparking under him, and then slides back in at a rolling, thorough pace. It’s almost steady, almost reassuring, except-- _except_ , every time Megatron starts to relax into it, Rung makes the pace a little harder, a little rougher.

By the third or fourth time Rung rips the comfort of predictable rhythm out from underneath him, Megatron’s auxiliary cooling systems are forcing him to take great gasping breaths of air through his intake. With no clear logic, bits and pieces of him are seizing up, glitching and jolting.

Rung licks his thumb and grinds it against Megatron’s swollen anterior node; electricity surges through the oral solvent with a burst of charge so sudden that almost hurts.

Rung’s thumb swipes down and drags more slick back up with it. For a moment, he hooks it into the channel along with his spike, and the stretch of them together rips a pitching moan out of Megatron.

Rung watches him come undone with detached interest, somehow both merciless and tender. Megatron finds himself pinned not under any weight or strength, but rather under this relentless gaze, which strips and dissects a spark to bare schematics. 

“Would you like me to overload inside of you?” Rung asks him.

Megatron groans, turning his head away from that keen gaze.

“That’s not an answer,” Rung says--his hips strike the open, pliable array-- “You have to say, _yes, Rung.”_

Megatron catches his lip between his teeth. “Yes, Rung.”

“You want me to fill you up?” Rung clarifies. “You want me to stuff you full of transfluid, darling?” 

Megatron is truly panting now. “Yes, Rung,” he says.

“That’s better,” Rung says.

It’s not what Megatron thought it would be. It’s not the grit and the darkness and the twisted hunger for _more,_ aroused and not quite understanding the arousal. He forgot to account, somehow, for the fact that Rung is always _Rung_. Rung does everything his own way, quietly and without fuss, chin up and arms open. There’s something stunning about that self assurance, the confidence-turned-care.

All these years, with a mind so sharp he could cut mechs to shreds, he’s refused to make himself a weapon. Megatron surrenders into his hands, and Rung takes him apart like it’s a joy to simply disassemble and reassemble him, piece by aching piece.

“Pressurize your spike,” Rung orders.

Megatron obeys. The stretching and unfolding of components--oh, oh it’s sensitive, he can’t--it’s too much, and then Rung’s hand--

Rung closes a hand around the swell of it and pumps. His processor stutters as it tries to simultaneously parse the stroking in his valve and the fingers coaxing his spike, and then all his higher processes are abruptly dumped to make way for the sheer input of sensation. For a blind second, he is not a tactician or a general or even _Megatron_ \--he is just a body, in the dark, desperate for the touch of another mech. 

A burst of thick heat fills his valve, and then charge that lances through him and feeds back again and again through the--oh, transfluid, Rung just--conductive lubricant bridging every contact point--

Rung lets out a low, reverent moan, and pulls free. Every inch of Megatron’s frame is almost unbearably primed, on the edge of overload and halted there, shuddering. Rung touches the twitching mesh where his own transfluid is still warm and crackling softly with charge.

“Why did you-” Megatron tries to ask. 

“Stop?” Rung suggest. “Pull out?”

Megatron tries to press up into Rung’s fingers but they retreat, barely skating over the rim of his valve. 

“You told me to take my pleasure,” Rung says, almost playfully. “I took it.”

Arousal twists up inside Megatron and gives him a ruthless squeeze. His array throbs.

“I really think we should take our time,” Rung replies. “This could take all night.”

“Please,” Megatron grits out. “Have mercy.”

“Oh, that’s the thing about putting yourself at someone else’s mercy,” Rung says, slipping fingers back inside Megatron to curl and coax spasms of pleasure from hypersensitive nodes. “Sometimes they don’t have the same idea of mercy as you.”

Rung’s other hand returns to the spike, the girth of which barely fits in his palm, and eases a dribble of pre-fluid from the tip. Used and reduced and aching for more, Megatron allows him whatever liberties he likes. Rung hums.

“Would you like me to give you an overload?” Rung gives him a squeeze.

“ _Yes,_ Rung.”

“Will you be good for me?”

Megatron swallows, intake dry. “Yes, Rung.”

Rung leans over him as he works his fingers through messy, swollen valve lips. He smiles, and it’s not an entirely reassuring smile.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says.


End file.
